In the Aftermath
by TinaBanina96
Summary: When a sudden accident leaves everyone reeling, the ones left behind struggle to mend. But how can there be hope for a happy ending when a family is broken? AU, FACE family story.
1. Prologue

**Title:** In the Aftermath**  
Author: **TinaBanina96**  
Summary:** When a sudden accident leaves everyone reeling, the ones left behind struggle to mend. But how can there be hope for a happy ending when a family is broken? AU, FACE family story.

* * *

**AN:** ** I don't know how I'm going to write this. I started planning this out around a year ago, and since I'm not usually much of a story planner, you know that's serious business. Well, here goes nothing.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own ****_Hetalia_**

* * *

**Prologue**

_The night was dark but he didn't notice. He was too fucking angry – too fucking angry to care about things like vision and his brain was too muddled to think of stupid things like reasons or excuses._

_He ran fast, faster than the footsteps that chased him into the darkness. He stumbled, once, twice, three times before he fell. In the time it took him to pick himself up the footsteps were here and god damn it, he's caught up. _

_"Wait!"_

_"Fuck you!" he screamed back and turned to face his pursuer. "Don't you fucking tell me what to do! You've done enough!" _

_His words were slurred, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to say anything more._

_They've reached an impasse, screaming at each other in the dark night. He could only see red blossoming in his vision from rage and alcohol, and the black blankness in the dark and then… something bright from the corner of his eyes. _

_They kept screaming at him to move, but fuck this, he's an adult and he could make his own decisions and this wasn't his fault… and holy shit why were the footsteps starting again and the lights, the lights were-_

_He's jolted to the left - the impact sent him crashing to the ground and his head hit the concrete hard. The arms that had pushed him were gone as soon as they came, and now his head hurt too much to crane his neck up and look for where they'd gone - so he just lay there._

_The lights were too close. They stung – yes, it was the light, not tears because his head felt like it was cracked open, not tears at all._

_"Oh shit!"_

_He heard something slam, and someone swear, and suddenly there was screaming._

_Was this it for him? Was this it for both of them? Fuck if he knew._

_Perhaps all along he'd known he was going to do something stupid, but he had never have imagined that it'd be… whatever the fuck had happened._

_It was too hard for him to think and then… then there was no noise at all except for some sort of inhuman screeching in the distance that screamed him to sleep as he closed his eyes._

* * *

**Still around? Then here is a special preview excerpt of the first, proper chapter:**

"You, yes, _you,_ are a self-centred jerk!"

"Ah, but chéri that's why you love me!"

It seemed like the hundredth time that Matthew had been woken up like this. Not by the alarm that rang dutifully every weekday, but by raised voices floating up into his room from the kitchen downstairs.

For a moment, he lay still, listening to an unusually light-hearted argument, at least compared to the spats he had heard recently. His parents seemed to be almost... joking? The sound of their words were, for once, almost comforting in their banter, as opposed to the spite filled verbal bullets that shot between his parents altogether too often.

After a few minutes, he dragged himself out from under his bed-covers, grabbed his glasses from his nightstand and shivered as a blast of cold air hit him.

Damn it. He swore he had closed that window last night.

Oh, right.

Alfred.

Matthew sighed as he closed the window, mumbling something about broken latches and breaking curfew. He dressed as quickly as possible, scowling at the cold autumn wind that had blown through and chilled the room. After pulling on a hoodie and a pair of jeans, he head towards the stairs.

"I cannot believe you're doing this again! And you're taking _her _with you!"

"It is my job, Arthur, and she has been my assistant for _five years._ I have to go, no matter how much I don't want to!"

"All I'm asking is for you to spend a little more time with us! Is that too much?"

"Do you think I like leaving you?"

"Bloody hell, I actually think you might!"

Matthew winced as his parents' voices became more vicious. He'd heard those tones more than enough times to tell that their 'little tiff' was escalating into familiar territory, a full blown argument that would result in screaming, and insults, and someone sleeping in the guest room (or leaving the house completely).

Those fights had happened too many times to count.

"I don't have time for this right now Arthur."

"Francis!"

"I have a plane to catch."

His papa's last sentence was punctuated with the sound of the front door slamming. It seemed that their argument had moved from the kitchen out into the hallway.

"Dude. What is up with them?"

Matthew turned from staring down the staircase and saw the face of his brother.

Alfred's eyes were slightly bloodshot and narrowed, and he was rubbing a temple with one hand. His glasses were on his face, for once, and his clothes were rumpled and creased, like he'd slept in them.

Matthew was 99% sure he had.

* * *

**… and that's it for now! See you soon (hopefully!) :)**


	2. Chapter 01

**AN:** ** And now the real story begins… er, sort of. I really hope some of you reading will stay with me for the long haul – there's a few twists and turns coming along! Thank you to my best friend Frances for keeping me relatively sane throughout my year of planning this.**

**DISCLAIMER: ****I do not own ****_Hetalia_**

* * *

**Chapter One**

_This is the second time Alfred's copied my homework 'accidentally' in a week. How… just… what? Come on Al, you've really got to come up with better excuses then that. Seriously though, if he just got off his ass and did some work instead of spending all his time hanging out with all of _them_, he'd actually be able to do something with himself. He's smart - but he's wasting it…_

_Papa and Dad had another fight today. A 'discussion' about whose turn it was to take out the trash, or something ridiculous like that. I swear, they do nothing but make out and fight. If I didn't love them so much, I'd have to slap them… you can only handle so much of them in one day._

_I am worried though, no matter how lightly I put things. This is getting way over the top._

* * *

"You, yes, _you,_ are a self-centred jerk!"

"Ah, but chéri that's why you love me!"

It seemed like the hundredth time that Matthew had been woken up like this. Not by the alarm that rang dutifully every weekday, but by raised voices floating up into his room from the kitchen downstairs.

For a moment, he lay still, listening to an unusually light-hearted argument, at least compared to the spats he had heard recently. His parents seemed to be almost... joking? The sound of their words were, for once, almost comforting in their banter, as opposed to the spite filled verbal bullets that shot between his parents altogether too often.

After a few minutes, he dragged himself out from under his bed-covers, grabbed his glasses from his nightstand and shivered as a blast of cold air hit him.

Damn it. He swore he had closed that window last night.

Oh, right.

Alfred.

Matthew sighed as he closed the window, mumbling something about broken latches and breaking curfew. He dressed as quickly as possible, scowling at the cold autumn wind that had blown through and chilled the room. After pulling on a hoodie and a pair of jeans, he head towards the stairs.

"I cannot believe you're doing this again! And you're taking _her _with you!"

"It is my job, Arthur, and she has been my assistant for _five years._ I have to go, no matter how much I don't want to!"

"All I'm asking is for you to spend a little more time with us! Is that too much?"

"Do you think I like leaving you?"

"Bloody hell, I actually think you might!"

Matthew winced as his parents' voices became more vicious. He'd heard those tones more than enough times to tell that their 'little tiff' was escalating into familiar territory, a full blown argument that would result in screaming, and insults, and someone sleeping in the guest room (or leaving the house completely).

Those fights had happened too many times to count.

"I don't have time for this right now Arthur."

"Francis!"

"I have a plane to catch."

His papa's last sentence was punctuated with the sound of the front door slamming. It seemed that their argument had moved from the kitchen out into the hallway.

"Dude. What is up with them?"

Matthew turned from staring down the staircase and saw the face of his brother.

Alfred's eyes were slightly bloodshot and narrowed, and he was rubbing a temple with one hand. His glasses were on his face, for once, and his clothes were rumpled and creased, like he'd slept in them.

Matthew was 99% sure he had.

"Fuck. They just killed my brain I think."

"You look like shit."

"I feel like shit."

"Hey Al, next time you decide to go out with your 'friends', can you at least close the window after you sneak back into at some stupidly late hour?"

"Ugh. Shut up. Stop being so judgey."

"That's not even a word."

"Is now."

"Whatever."

"Seriously bro, Dad and Papa?"

"Argument."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

Alfred groaned and clutched his head.

"They could at least try being quiet... It's like, way too early, and my head hurts way too much."

"Your head wouldn't hurt so much if you hadn't decided to get wasted on a Sunday night."

"It was just a few drinks."

Matthew raised an eyebrow as Alfred shrugged nonchalantly.

"You've got to stop this Al."

"Lighten up Mattie. It's not hurting anyone." Alfred grinned, his perfect golden-boy smile that worked on practically everyone. "It's just a few parties, right?"

Unfortunately for Alfred, Matthew was one of the few that could brush off his disarming smile.

"You're hurting yourself Alfred. You know nothing good will come of this."

"Stop being such a old lady, Matt."

"ALFRED. MATTHEW."

Alfred cringed as the sound of their dad's voice hit his eardrums and Matthew felt the smallest twinge of sympathy for his hung-over brother.

"GET YOUR ARSES DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW, THE BOTH OF YOU OR YOU'LL BE LATE."

"He's mad."

"He's always like this after he and Papa fight."

"Wouldn't hurt him to keep his voice down though."

"Oh shut it Al."

* * *

Arthur was fuming.

Too bad the reason for his foul mood was probably miles away by now, getting ready to catch a plane for _yet another _business trip. A business trip to France, which no one had told him about until 40 bloody minutes ago.

A business trip to Paris with that goddamn perfect secretary.

A great start to the morning, clearly.

"ALFRED. MATTHEW. GET YOUR ARSES DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW." Arthur yelled up the stairs, before storming back to the kitchen. He glared at the half-drunk mug of still-hot coffee that rested on the table, before picking it up and tipping the contents into the sink.

Damn that stupid bloody Frenchman and his stupid bloody half-finished coffee and his stupid bloody job.

"Morning, Dad."

Arthur stopped scowling as his two sons filed into the kitchen, Matthew greeting him quietly, while Alfred trailed behind him, looking rather bedraggled.

"Good morning Matthew."

"Toast?"

The one-word question – more of a grunt, really - came from Alfred, who had seated himself down at the table and was holding his head in his hands. Arthur shot him a concerned look.

"Is everything alright?"

"He's just tired." Matthew slid into the chair next to Alfred, bringing a bowl of cereal with him. Arthur frowned.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah, tired." Alfred glanced upwards at his dad and smiled. "All the sports, you know?"

Arthur nodded, furrowing his eyebrows. He turned away and completely missed the grateful look that passed from one son to the other.

"If you say so."

There was something not quite right about the situation, but to be honest, Arthur was too angry to notice. He checked his watch absentmindedly and swore when he saw the time.

"Bollocks. I've got to go. Matthew, can you make your brother some toast?"

"Sure Dad."

He was halfway out of the kitchen when Alfred called for him.

"Dad? Where's Papa?"

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows and took a breath before answering.

"He's gone to France on a business trip."

"When will he be back?" asked Matthew carefully. He noticed his dad tense as he avoided the question.

"Goodbye boys." replied Arthur tersely, leaving quickly.

"Well that explains it." Alfred said. "Dad's mad that Papa's leaving. Again."

Matthew carefully placed a plate with two slices of toast in front of his brother, before sitting down again. Alfred mumbled his thanks.

"How's your head?" Matthew asked gently as his brother started on the toast.

"It feels like something's crawled in there and is banging at my brain."

"This would never had happened if you would ju-"

"Leave it Mattie. Just leave it." Alfred's voice was hard and he was glaring at his brother. Matthew dropped the topic.

The two brothers ate their breakfast in silence, neither wanting to breach the topic of their parents' constant arguing or Alfred's weekday hangover. Every so often Matthew would glance over at Alfred and open his mouth to say something, but every single time words deserted him.

He didn't want to disturb the fragile peace which they had managed to create with a confrontation.

Not this early in the morning.

* * *

A few months ago, if Jeanne Darkham was asked how her boss arrived at work every morning, she would have been quite confident in saying 'impeccably dressed, with a smile on his face".

Now though, it seemed that the answer was still 'impeccably dressed', but the smile had been wiped off Francis Bonnefoy's beautiful face. More often than not, the Frenchman would show up scowling, occasionally with his cell phone pressed to his ear.

Today looked like it would be one of those days.

Jeanne spotted the blond man making his way through the airport easily. The crowds of panicked rushing travellers seemed to part for him as he towed a suitcase behind him. She smiled at the sight of him. When he saw her, he smiled tensely back.

"Ah, Jeanne. You're here."

Jeanne could hear the undercurrent of stress and frustration that Francis hid behind his light-hearted tone. His words were just a fraction too cheery, a little too clipped.

"Of course, Francis. It's a very important day." Jeanne made her voice as soothing as possible. "We wouldn't want to miss our flight."

"I am very sorry I'm late." Francis apologised as the two walked towards the luggage counter. "I had a-"

Francis's phone rang out that moment, and Jeanne caught the briefest hint of a grimace as he answered.

"Hello? Yes. No. Airport. I will call you. Goodbye."

Francis hung up with a sigh, turning off his phone and stuffing it angrily into a pocket of his dark grey blazer.

"Was that your husband?" Jeanne asked carefully.

Francis nodded.

"Another stupid fight. All 'I am never home' and 'how can I be leaving again'. Honestly, it feels like all we ever do is argue. He is just so stubborn and suspicious! Why can't he understand, that this is what I do for a living? I hate leaving Arthur and Alfred and Matthieu at home, but I do not _choose_ to go 'gallivanting across the ocean', as he calls it."

Jeanne nodded along silently as Francis gesticulated wildly with one arm. She was used to listening to the Frenchman's speeches about his home life. The longer he spoke, the stronger his accent would get. Occasionally, after a few minutes, Francis would switch from English to French, and Jeanne would thank her mother for drilling the French language into her head as a child.

"...and oh god, I _hate_ going over on these trips, and I _hate _having to leave everything so open like this, and, pour l'amour de Dieu, I hate him sometimes."

Francis sighed, and Jeanne watched how his blue eyes darted downwards towards the floor.

"Non... no, I do not mean that. I love him and will love him until death. I guess I love him so much that I hate him."

Jeanne made the appropriate sympathetic noises, not really sure what to say. While, an incredibly competent (some would say overly so) secretary and personal assistant, who knew Francis' schedule, activities and demeanour inside and out, Jeanne was not one for relationship advice.

Especially when giving relationship advice to someone who she was completely, utterly, madly in love with.

Listening to Francis' rant gave Jeanne the tiniest hint of guilty joy. As much as she hated to see him so upset, there was a horrible part of herself that liked seeing his marriage so unstable. Jeanne knew it existed, and for the past few years had hid it well (or at least she thought she had), but as she watched Francis and Arthur's arguments become more frequent, the little part of herself that loved the beautiful Frenchman only grew louder.

"... and then there are the kids! I swear I never see Alfred these days, what with his American football and his swim team and all that. At least Matthieu is always around-"

"Francis?"

"Yes? Ah, ma cheri, I apologise. I don't mean to burden you with all of this drama."

"It's fine, really. I just wanted to point out that we should be heading towards the boarding gate now."

"Ah Jeanne, what would I do without you?" Francis smiled, a real smile this time. After talking about his family, he had seemed to relax. His eyes twinkled and Jeanne felt her spirits lift.

Not that his statement had really meant anything. She was just his secretary after all, and it was her job to know his life.

She had kept the secret of loving Francis Bonnefoy for years, and she could keep it for another two day trip to Paris.

* * *

Francis sometimes wondered why he put so much effort into his job, when all it did was take him away from his family.

When Francis had just been starting out in the family business, he had spent a lot of time with Arthur and the very young Alfred and Matthew. They had been living in Canada back then, and he had been a chef in one of his family's restaurants.

Those peaceful seven years (one with Arthur only, the other six with the twins) had been amazing, but after getting promoted to Marketing Director (a job which Francis was pretty sure his own papa had created specifically for him, seeing as he had had previous experience in neither marketing nor directing), he had shifted his entire family to a town in America that happened to house the American Headquarters of Bonnefoy Restaurants.

That had been eight years ago, and Francis had never missed those Canadian days more than he did now.

This last minute trip to was just the latest in a string of meetings and conferences over in Paris.

The reason for the sudden increase in workload? Only a multi-million dollar deal, which, if successfully negotiated, could lead to the Bonnefoy restaurant chain buying out their biggest rivals.

It was no wonder that Francis had been run off his feet lately. It didn't help that, in the past, Francis had been very briefly acquainted with the daughter of the man who he was now negotiating with. Suffice to say, Francis had made quite the bad impression on him.

In his opinion, his papa should never have made it his job to get this deal. Francis, charming and charismatic as he was, was a chef at heart, not a businessman. It would have been better to let his younger sister Monique handle this – but no. The company they were dealing with were terribly traditional, and for the takeover to be successful, a male Bonnefoy would have to do the job.

So of course old Monsieur Bonnefoy had assigned his only son to the deal.

Magnifique.

Francis scowled as he thought over this, stabbing the plane seat belt angrily towards the latch. When it didn't click, he swore. He felt hands gently remove the seat belt from his and click it properly into place.

He sighed.

"Thank you Jeanne. I'm sorry, I am so useless this morning."

Jeanne smiled.

"It's fine Francis. You're not having a good day."

"No. No I'm not."

"Maybe you just need some time away from each other."

"The time away is the problem..."

Jeanne was silent as the plane started to take off. Francis turned his head towards the window, watching as the tarmac went by faster and faster, before fading away as the plane left the runway.

With the plane up in the air, Francis couldn't help but feel a growing sense of distance.

* * *

Arthur stepped out of the car into a blistering gust of wind, which sent his scarf whacking into his face. Swearing as he wrestled with the garment, he locked the car and made his way into his workplace.

At this time in the morning, the Riverview University Library was peaceful. There were only a few students and professors lingering about, frantically writing probably overdue reports and enjoying steaming cups of takeaway coffee with light morning chatter. Arthur's rather grumpy arrival made no impact on the small crowd. The university students and faculty were used to Mr. Kirkland the librarian storming in, and now the sight barely made them blink an eye.

Arthur crossed the library, stomping towards the little office at the back. Entering, he slung his coat over the circular table in the middle of the room and slumped into a chair.

"Someone's in a good mood today." chirped a female voice as a mug of tea was placed in front of him and his coat was picked up and whisked to the set of hooks next to the door. Arthur mumbled quiet thanks, picking up the hot mug in both hands. He looked into the depths of his tea, before taking a sip. The liquid scalded his tongue, but he gulped it down anyway. His co-worker sat opposite him in silence, waiting patiently for an answer.

"Life is absolutely peachy." he replied, sarcasm evident in his tone of voice. The brunette across the table raised an eyebrow.

"Well that's certainly convincing."

"I try."

Arthur looked up to see the woman's eyebrows crinkled with concern. He sighed. There was no point trying to bury the topic, was there? He was much too easily read, and Liza was skilled in reading more than just books.

Elizaveta Héderváry had been working at library longer than he had. An alumna of the very university, she was known to love her job and work hard at it.

Arthur had never made friends easily, and she had been his first friend when he began. Approachable and perceptive, the only child of Hungarian immigrants hadn't been put off by his prickly demeanour, and knew what it was like to feel like an outsider in the tight-knit community that was suburban Riverview. Even though he had technically arrived to replace her boss, Liza had shown him the ropes, even after his protests of 'I'm not a bloody child'.

Liza had warned him which professors to avoid, advised him on which students to kick-out, and what parts of the library he should avoid if he didn't want to catch people in the midst of some indecent act.

The process to best friendship had been surprisingly quick. It helped that Liza was quite well acquainted with the few people in town that Arthur actually knew – one of his old university roommates turned architect turned lecturer who he had gotten the Senior Librarian job through was a friend of hers, and Francis' life-long pen-pal had happened to be her childhood best friend. Slowly, through Liza, Arthur's social circle had broadened, but he would always be grudgingly grateful to her.

So sitting opposite the 31 year old now, Arthur knew he was going to crack. The woman was just too damn perceptive.

"Francis went on another business trip this morning."

"Ah. I see. Let me guess: He didn't tell you about it?"

"Not until minutes before he had to go."

"That's been happening a lot lately, hasn't it?"

Arthur sighed, scowling at his mug of tea.

"All too bloody much."

"That's not everything, is it?"

Arthur looked back up to see that Liza was frowning. Great.

"He's going with Jeanne, again." he muttered. "To Paris."

"Oh!" Liza's eyebrows shot up as she placed her own mug on the table. "You don't think they're...?"

Arthur shrugged, gulping down a mouthful of tea to avoid answering the question.

Liza's face softened.

"He wouldn't do that to you. He may be a lecherous flirt sometimes, but it's pretty obvious how much he loves you. Everyone can see it. Besides, Jeanne is better than that. They're both better than that."

The woman reached over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Have faith in him, Arthur. I know it must be difficult to have him gone so often. But you've got the twins at home with you, right?"

Arthur nodded slowly. Liza's words had a calming effect, and though a little part of himself was still angry, that part had cooled from a blazing inferno to a few simmering coals.

"How are Alfred and Matthew? I don't think I've seen them in a while."

"They're... teenage boys. They're always off with sports or homework or friends or... god, I don't know. It's been forever since I was a teenage boy."

Arthur smiled. Liza was right. Although Francis was constantly flying out of the country at the drop of a hat, he always had his kids. Even if those kids seemed to be at the stage where he had no clue what was going on in their lives anymore.

"So just the usual then?" replied Liza with small laugh. "I guess some things never change."

"You'll have to come over for dinner sometime. When Francis gets back, of course."

"That reminds me... When is Francis getting back?"

"He said he'd call. Shouldn't be too long."

The remains of his anger started to flare up again, but he took a breath. What was the point in staying angry?

"Do you think he'll be back by the 27th?"

"The 27th? That's... Saturday after next? He should be."

"Fantastic! Wouldn't want him to miss my engagement dinner!"

"I'm sure he'll mak- Wait. You're..."

Arthur looked across the table and spotted something glistening on the hand Liza had wrapped around her coffee mug. He looked back up in shock. Liza was grinning like a mad thing.

"What? Since when?"

"Yesterday."

"Congratulations!"

Arthur stood up to offer a hearty handshake, only to be swept into a hug by the Hungarian woman.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

For just over a year now, Liza had been dating the Head of ER at the local hospital (a man whose name Arthur could never remember – Eli or something?). Arthur hadn't met the man, but not for lack of trying. Every single time Liza had attempted to organise a "Meet My Amazing Boyfriend" gathering of some sort, said boyfriend had had to rush to the hospital to go do heart transplants, or give sponge baths, or other vital life saving operations.

Considering that Arthur had heard many stories about E-something in the last year, there was no way he could ask for the guy's name now. Though, even without the name, Arthur got an oddly familiar feeling whenever Liza told any stories about him, which was completely and utterly baffling for Arthur. He was never usually one to forget names.

Oh well. At least he'd meet the new fiancé soon enough.

There was a loud ringing noise, and the brunette let go of him. She fumbled for a second in the pocket of her skirt, before extracting a mobile phone. Apologising, she mouthed 'sorry' at Arthur, before picking up the phone.

"Hello?"

"..."

"Gilbert! But I thought you wouldn't be back till tomorrow?"

"..."

"I'm at work. Say hi to Arthur!"

"..."

"No, I'm not going to tell him that."

"..."

"You shut up! Anyway, actually there's something I want to tell you! I'm engaged!"

Liza drifted away from Arthur towards the back of the office, chatting to Gilbert on the phone. Arthur rolled his eyes. So Gilbert was finally back in Riverview.

Trust him to forget his own plane arrival time. The 34 year old man could, quite honestly, sometimes be the dumbest person Arthur had ever met – and yet, he was easily one of the best barristers in all of Riverview, if not the state. It helped that the Beilschmidt family ran a very well-known and established law firm, which was currently presided over by Gilbert's father. Gilbert had gone to Harvard Law, and graduated top of his class, despite having had what he described as 'a super awesome party-hard' time at the prestigious university. Arthur guessed that lawyering was just in Gilbert's blood – and his predisposed contrariness certainly didn't hinder him either.

It had been eight months since he'd seen Gilbert. The man had been staying with family in Germany, sent there by his father to take a special course being run by some elite ex-lawyer. It had been oddly quiet without him around. Liza had agreed with that sentiment, commenting that not having her best friend of 24 years around was both a blessing, and a curse.

Francis had certainly missed him, and often lamented the absence of one third of his little drinking trio. Arthur considered calling his husband to inform him that Gilbert was back, but stopped himself. He'd still be on the plane, wouldn't he?

"Hey, Arthur?"

Liza had returned, phone call finished. She was frowning at her phone. Clearly, the call had ended badly.

"Something happen? Gilbert still being a total wanker?"

Though Gilbert had been in Germany for the majority of Liza's relationship, Arthur had heard many stories from Liza about Gilbert's disapproval of her boyfriend. Though the two had never met, according to Liza, the moment she had mentioned E-something's family background and job, Gilbert had deemed the man absolutely un-dateable.

Not that anyone else could see anything wrong about a highly paid doctor from aristocratic roots. Though, to be fair, Gilbert had, since Arthur had known him, at least, always had an irrational hatred of doctors.

"As usual." Liza sighed, pocketing her phone. "But he'll get over it. Anyway – 7pm on the 27th. Make sure you're free!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, love."

* * *

Matthew hated PE.

Not because he was unfit, or bad at sport, or lazy – Matthew (centre forward of the Riverview High Icicles) was none of those things.

Matthew hated PE because of Alfred.

Well... that was a little harsh. Too be fair, Alfred wasn't the problem. It was his friends.

For the majority of their subjects, Alfred and Matthew were in completely different classes. This hadn't always been the case, but with Alfred's lagging grades this year, and Matthew's above average ones, the two were separated. For that Matthew was – rather guiltily – grateful.

PE was one of the two subjects they shared now. Matthew had used to enjoy being in Alfred's class. The two brothers were close, or at least, they had been before. Now though...

"Yo Al!" Matthew felt a sudden pain in his arm as one of Alfred's friends passed him. "Party Fri – oh dude, you're not Alfred."

Matthew shook his head, and pointed towards the other side of the gym where his brother was slumped on a bleacher, surrounded by his friends.

The boy reeked of cigarette smoke. Matthew was glad to watch him go, and take the smell with him.

"Matthew!"

Matthew felt himself accosted by a pair of arms.

"Mei?"

The Asian girl's attack on Matthew was met with cat calls and whistles from Alfred's group across the gym. Matthew glanced over at them, to see that Alfred wasn't involved. In fact, Alfred seemed to be blatantly ignoring him. Matthew noticed that Alfred's glasses were gone – again. His brother must have switched back to contact lenses sometime after they'd arrived at school.

Mei let go of Matthew and glared at the leering crowd, who made a few lewd suggestions. She seemed all set to storm over there, but a comment from Alfred turned the group's attention on to him.

"Let it go, sis."

Matthew turned to see Mei's brother trailing along towards him, hands in his pockets.

"They're just so _rude_." Mei complained, shooting the group another angry look, before grabbing her brother's sleeve in one hand and Matthew's in the other, and dragging them both even further away.

"You mean Alfre-"

"Leon! Shush!" interrupted Mei, before her brother could finish his sentence. Leon shrugged, the uninterested expression on his face remaining unchanged.

"Whatever." Leon gave Matthew a small wave. "Hey Matt."

Wang Xiao Mei and Wang Xiao Long (Leon – the Chinese boy had always preferred his Western nickname) were Matthew's fellow seniors at Riverview High School. The twins had lived in Riverview their whole lives, and had been quite excited (well, Mei had been quite excited) when Alfred and Matthew moved to Riverview in seventh grade. Until the beginning of this year, the two sets of twins had been the heart of the small group of friends that they'd amassed over their high school years. Now though…

Matthew glanced over at Alfred once again while Mei and Leon argued over something he didn't quite catch. Alfred and his friends appeared to be harassing the substitute teacher that was filling in for the regular gym coach. The poor woman looked completely flustered, seemingly unable to exert any sort of control over the group of rowdy teens.

It didn't look like there was going to be a lot to do in PE today.

* * *

The rest of the period went by surprisingly fast – a fact that Matthew was grateful for. Between Mei and Leon's discussions of their plans for their elder brother's surprise birthday party, and Alfred's group chucking basketballs at them every couple of minutes, Matthew hadn't exactly had the best PE lesson of his life.

The next class was Art, and while Matthew wasn't a particularly talented artist, Art with Mr. Braginsky was always calming. Though Art was the other class he shared with Al, Mr. Braginsky's take-no-shit attitude was a bit of a relief for Matthew, as most teachers were so very easily swayed by Alfred.

After saying goodbye to Leon, he and Mei walked from the gym to the art block. Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew could see Alfred headed in the same direction, accompanied by a few cheerleaders.

"Did you do the assignment?" Mei asked him. Switching his attention from Alfred to her, Matthew nodded.

"Yeah."

"Me too! Mr. B will probably kill anyone who doesn't!" Mei chirped, much too cheerfully. "I mean, I finished it so quickly, even though I had Yao's party to plan!"

"I thought Leon was helping you with that?"

"Leon? As if. All of his ideas involved fireworks. We can't have Yao blowing himself up – not when he's only been back for a few months, anyway! Besides, Yao's much too old to be playing around with fireworks."

"Isn't your brother 24?"

"Turning 25 on Wednesday - old, isn't he?"

"But that's way too young to be a psychologist."

"Yao's always been crazy smart."

Matthew smiled, content to listen to Mei's chatter as they walked to art.

Arriving at their classroom, Mei and Matthew split off and headed towards their assigned seats. Matthew tried to sit down quickly, but failed to notice the bag that was placed next to his chair. He tripped, accidentally launching himself sideways and elbowing his neighbour in the face.

A few giggles arose from the doorway, along with a few unintelligible comments.

"Oh sh- I'm sorry Jóse!"

The tall Cuban waved one hand at his dismissively, cradling his nose in the other.

"All good, Mattie. Shouldn't have left my bag there." replied Jóse, voice muffled through his fingers.

"Oh my god, did I break it?"

Jóse moved his hand from his face. Mattie winced in sympathy at the sight of the now bleeding nose.

"I'm so sorry!"

"Matt! Bro are you okay?"

In a flash, Alfred appeared in front of him, blue eyes wide in concern.

"I'm fine. I just tripped. Jóse migh-"

"He probably put that there on purpose, you know!" Alfred exclaimed, scowling at Jóse. The Cuban boy scowled back at him.

"Go away Alfred! It was my fault." Matthew sighed. It wasn't often, but every once in a while, if Alfred witnessed any event that looked like it hurt Matthew, his twin would take a break from playing popular and rush over.

Playing the hero, Matthew called it.

He could hear a few of Alfred's 'fangirls' cooing over his brother now. How _heroic _of Alfred to save his brother from the scary foreigner! Wasn't that just _adorable?_

"Alfred. In your seat."

All heads turned towards the doorway which framed a tall man in a heavy coat. His mere presence was enough to silence a class full of rowdy seniors

"Dude, sorry Mr. B."

It took barely a second for Alfred's concern to disappear, to be replaced with a cocky smile and challenging tone. Alfred turned slowly, practically sauntering to his seat on the other side of the classroom.

Mr. Braginsky walked into the classroom, watching carefully as Alfred sat down, before stopping in front of Matthew and Jóse. He cocked an eyebrow.

"What happened?"

"I tripped on a bag and hit Jóse in the face."

"He didn't do it on purpose."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah."

The teacher's eyes flicked back towards Alfred, as Matthew nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Very well. Jóse, I will take you to the nurse's office. Everyone else, please prepare your assignments."

Jóse stood up and made his way towards Mr. Braginsky. He turned back briefly and flashed Matthew a thumbs-up with his free hand, before following the teacher out the door.

As soon as the two had left, Alfred stood up and practically ran towards the Cuban boy's empty seat. Kicking Jóse's bag over, he sat down.

"Real mature." Matthew frowned, leaning down and moving the bag away from Alfred.

"Accident."

Matthew rolled his eyes as Alfred shrugged.

"Yeah, sure."

"Dude, I swear."

"What do you want Al?"

Aside from potential injuries, there weren't very many reasons why Alfred would speak to Matthew during the two classes they shared. There was "cover for me while I go to this party tonight", as well as "lend me some money", and of course, the ever popular -

"I need to copy your assignment."

"No."

"I won't copy it word for word! I'll like, change the sentences around. He'll never know!"

"You had a month to do it, Al."

"I was going to start last night, but then Dylan texted and said Brandon was having a party so I jumped out the window and -"

"No."

"Please, bro!"

"No."

"Matt!"

"No!"

"Mattie. Please."

"Mr. Bonnefoy-Kirkland. That is not your seat."

Matthew and Alfred looked up to see Mr. Braginsky's student teacher looking down at them.

Ms. Natalya Arlovskaya was barely older than them. Mr. Braginsky's younger half-sister, she (like her brother) had gone to Riverview High herself, and in fact, had been in her final year when Matthew and Alfred began. The former Queen Bee was now in her third year of her Education degree, and it was pure coincidence that she'd been assigned as her own brother's student teacher - though that fact hadn't stopped rumours from swirling that Ms. Arlovskaya had somehow gotten herself assigned as Mr. Braginsky's student teacher on purpose, out of a convoluted love for her brother. Those who believed these rumours raised more suspicion with the fact that Natalya had notoriously disappeared in what should have been her junior year, only to return again as a junior a year later, after some scandal at Riverview High that no one would ever talk about.

Matthew wasn't one to listen to gossip, and from what he had seen in art class, Ms. Arlovskaya seemed pretty cold towards everyone, including Mr. Braginsky. Where the rumours were coming from now, he didn't know.

Alfred smiled up at Ms. Arlovskaya.

"I was just keeping Mattie here company."

"Return to your seat immediately."

"Aww, but Natalya, I'd be leaving my brother here all by himself."

The woman arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Matthew could practically feel the daggers directed at Alfred.

"You are to refer to me as Ms. Arlovskaya."

"But Natalya's such an-"

"Alfred. You are not very good at following instructions, are you?"

Alfred was interrupted by the return of Mr. Braginsky. In the back of his mind, Matthew noted that for such a big guy, he was surprisingly good at sneaking up on people.

Alfred pouted, and rolled his eyes at Matthew, before he once again made his way back to where he should have been, Mr. Braginsky watching his every movement.

As soon as Matthew saw Alfred's butt touch his chair, he sunk downwards into his own seat.

* * *

The walk home was oddly quiet.

At least, on Alfred's end it was. Normally, the conversation between the brothers varied from around fifty percent input from both of them, to Alfred not being able to shut up.

But Alfred was in a sulk. That much, Matthew could plainly see.

"Al-"

"Shut up I hate you you suck I'm ignoring you."

There was still lingering tensions from their morning argument – but then again, he'd been having those arguments with Alfred a lot lately, so he hadn't expected the repercussions to last this long. Though really, Matthew reasoned, art class hadn't exactly been a major bonding experience for the two of them. He guessed Alfred hadn't quite bounced back to his usual perky self.

The silence continued until they rounded a corner about two blocks from school.

"Yo, Alfred! Dude!"

Alfred turned quickly, stopping dead in his tracks. It took Matthew a second to decide whether or not to stop with him.

"Tyler!" Alfred yelled back, mouth stretching into what Matthew called his 'douchebag smirk'. "Bro, I thought you were away with like, tonsillitis or something?"

"Nah, just ditched today." replied Tyler (who Matthew swore was actually 20 and had just been held back a few years), sauntering over to the two of them. He pointed his thumb at Matthew. "Who's that?"

"My bro. Like, my real bro." Alfred said hesitantly.

"We've been in the same home room class for two years." muttered Matthew under his breath, before mustering up a polite smile and extending his hand for a hand shake.

"Dude. Sup." Tyler nodded once, before bumping Matthew's open palm and turning his attention back to Alfred. "Wanna go smash the window on Mr. Brabitchsky's car?"

With that, Alfred and Tyler started walking off. Alfred turned back quickly to shout something at Matthew.

"Tell Dad I'm at swim team practice!"

Matthew didn't respond, and Alfred didn't look back.

* * *

There was a strange smell when he arrived home. Hanging his coat up in the hallway, Arthur sniffed.

The whole place smelt like roast beef.

Arthur frowned. Francis almost never got home before him and even then he would never make roast beef because he said it was dreadful and oh, wait, Francis wasn't even in the country at the moment, was he?

"Hey dad."

Matthew sat at the dining table alone, iPod headphone in one ear, and the other ear free to here the 'ding' of the oven timer. He dangled a pencil in his right hand, eyes narrowed at the worksheet in front of him.

"Matthew. You made dinner?"

"I had time."

Matthew shrugged, bringing the pencil up to chew on the end of it.

"Where's A-"

"Swim team practice." said Matthew quickly. "Probably won't be back until later."

"Ah, okay."

Arthur had never been able to keep up with Alfred's sport practice days. He swore, every week the practice times would change – or perhaps he was just getting old.

At least with Matthew it was easy. Guitar lessons on Tuesdays. Hockey practice on Thursdays.

The kitchen timer rung and Arthur went to get it. In a flash, Matthew jumped out of his chair and snatched the oven gloves from his hands.

"I should probably do it, Dad."

"Hmmph." Arthur scowled. "Matthew I'm not going to-"

"Better safe than sorry." Matthew smiled apologetically at his father, before taking the roast out. "You know what Papa always says."

"He doesn't say that. I say that."

"Dad."

"You're a good lad, Matthew."

"Thanks dad."

They ate dinner quietly. Without the presence of Francis or Alfred, neither felt the need to talk. Arthur and Matthew just weren't the type that needed words, but instead enjoyed each other's presence.

The only interruption of their comfortable hush was the ringing of the phone halfway through dinner. Arthur excused himself to the hallway to pick it up. It was probably Alfred needing a ride home, or Elizaveta calling about the 27th.

"Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland speaking."

"Arthur, it's me."

"Francis."

There was an uncomfortable silence as neither knew what to say next. Arthur waited – having thought back on it, he was sorry about their argument but there was no way in hell he was going to say it. Francis probably felt the same.

It was how they worked.

"How was the plane?"

"It was… you know how planes are."

"And the hotel?"

"Overly luxurious and horribly impersonal – like everything that my papa books."

Arthur half-smiled. It sounded like his father-in-law hadn't changed a bit since the last time they'd visited.

"Where's Jeanne?"

"Three floors above me in a room I do not know the number of. Are you happy, Arthur?"

"I…I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too."

"When will you be back?"

"I have a flight booked for tomorrow, arriving around 8 o'clock.

"Tomorrow… That's the 9th?"

"Yes, the 9th."

"So this trip won't be long at all, will it?"

"Then good luck, Francis."

"I'll try, chéri. Are Matthieu and Alfred home?"

"You called in the middle of dinner, but Alfred's at some sports thing."

Francis chuckled, and Arthur smiled properly at the sound.

"How very like him. Could you put Matthieu on?"

Arthur picked up the wireless handset and wandered back into the kitchen. He handed the phone to Matthew.

"It's your father."

Matthew nodded and took the phone. Arthur stayed standing, and started to clear his half eaten plate away, listening to Matthew as he spoke in French down the phone. The two spoke for a few minutes.

"… Tu me manques aussi. Au revoir Papa."

Matthew handed the phone back to Arthur, who thanked him quietly.

"Matthieu is such a good child."

"Sometimes I think you taught him French just to annoy me."

"Non, the Canadians taught him French."

"You called Canadian-French an abomination."

"It was. I had to fix that semblance of a language that they taught him at middle school. Besides, you speak French, Arthur."

"You know I'm not fluent. Alfred and I-"

"Don't you remember? I tried to teach Alfred but he told me- "

"That he wouldn't learn any language other than 'American'."

"You got so mad and made him read an entire book on English grammar!"

"They were so young then."

Arthur glanced back towards the kitchen door, through which he could see Matthew tidying the table.

"They grow up so fast."

"That was corny, even for you."

"I only speak the truth, chéri. Soon they will be grown up with families of their own."

"And we'll be old."

He heard Francis gasp over-dramatically.

"Me? Old? Never! Perhaps you, Arthur, will have grey hairs and wrinkles but I will still be young and beautiful."

"You're already old Francis. Older than me anyway. If I've got grey hair and wrinkles than you'll have no hair and liver spots."

"Hush, Arthur. That is a lie! Take it back!"

"Never!"

"Hmph, you only speak out of fear that I will not love you when you are 85 years old and in a wheelchair."

"And will you?"

"You already know the answer to that."

Arthur felt a vibration in his let pocket and pulled out his phone.

_At swim team. Pck me up plz._

"I've got to go. Alfred wants me to pick him up."

"Alas, then this is farewell till Wednesday."

"Goodbye Francis. I love you."

"I love you too."

Arthur hung up, putting the phone back in its cradle. He called out to Matthew that he was leaving, grabbed the car keys out of his coat pocket and left the house, feeling much better than he had the last time he'd passed through that doorway.

* * *

"I've got to go. Alfred wants me to pick him up."

"Alas, then this is goodbye till Wednesday."

"Goodbye Francis. I love you."

"I love you too."

Francis heard the familiar click of a phone hanging up and he sighed. He was glad that he and Arthur were no longer angry at each other – but that only made him want to be home even more.

Though, if he was being technical, he was home. France was his place of birth, his place of schooling and where all his family were from. He'd even gone to culinary school here in Paris – he'd had a little apartment near the Seine, and there was his family's townhouse here, too.

Francis fiddled with the cellphone in his hand, and for a millisecond, contemplated dropping it off the balcony he was standing on, jumping on a flight back to Riverview and quitting his job. He decided against it. It was a very expensive cellphone, and having to switch numbers would be rather frustrating. Besides, last minute plane tickets were so hard to get, and if he were to quit, he'd never hear the end of it from Arthur, or his papa.

The Paris nightline was always very pretty at 1:30am. When he was younger, he'd gotten drunk with his friends all the time, and they'd used to wax lyrical about bright lights and the Eiffel tower while staring into the horizon.

Now though, Francis turned his back on the city and went into his dark hotel room, alone.

* * *

**It feels good to finally get this thing uploaded, when the whole plotline has been planned for so long. This chapter is just setting the scene, the proper plotline doesn't start for a while... This story is likely to be long, and there is in fact a spin off planned. Quick note – a lot of the names I mentioned (Tyler, Brandon, etc) are just completely random OCs who will most likely never be mentioned again because they are not important.  
Do leave me your thoughts and predications – I love feedback :)**


	3. Chapter 02

**AN:** ** Apologies for the wait – I had some stuff happening in my life that was quite distressing, as well as a massive workload (caught up in internals and projects, as well as Choir regionals and just general sickness). Thanks to all those who have followed and favourited, and a special thank you to the reviewers – I was really touched to see the thought put into what you wrote!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own ****_Hetalia. _****Any views expressed by characters in my story are not necessarily my own views, nor the views of Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

_" … When we were little, Alfred had this little toy rocket ship. He said he wanted to go to the stars, and it used to annoy me because he would run around and knock over things and then tell me h'de claimed my Legos in the name of America. Then I'd remind him that we lived in Canada and Alfred would cry – he wasn't upset, but if he cried, Dad would buy him something, and then Papa would buy me something after accusing Dad of favouritism. We'd only been with Papa and Dad for a year then, and Dad was terrified that he'd do something wrong. _

_They both were._

_It all worked out for Al, I guess. It always does. We did end up going to America and Papa even took us to the Smithsonian. Too bad by then he'd grown out of astronauts – But even now he's always getting excited at people on TV talking about sending rovers to Mars or meteorites passing Earth. I'm pretty sure he still has that stuffed alien plush toy from that trip hidden somewhere amongst his sheets._

_I wonder what happened to that rocket?"_

* * *

Monday was a bitch of a day, thought Alfred. But today was going to be (like Uncle Gil always said) _awesome_.

The day had already gotten off to a better start – Dad hadn't screamed at him to get up, and Mattie hadn't nagged at him, and _holy shit he had smashed in Mr. Braginsky's car window with a baseball bat_.

Tyler always had the best ideas. At least, the ones that didn't include getting like, no sleep. Too bad Tyler's second idea had been 'sneak out at 2am and back into it at 4:30". At least he'd remembered to close the window to Matt's room this time, and to take some blackmail pictures in case he decided to tattle.

Alfred grinned, suppressing a yawn, as he walked through the door of first period art. He wasn't sure how he was going to look Mr. Braginsky in the eye, but what the hell.

Matt trailed in behind him, and split quickly. Alfred turned back and waved at Matt, whilst simultaneously glaring at his seat mate.

Jóse glared back. Alfred's eyes were drawn to the splint on his nose and for some stupid reason, he felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. Not that the guy's broken nose was his fault.

Art was always boring. Alfred spent most of his time in the class staring out the window while pretending to listen to whichever cheerleader was sitting next to him, or flirting with the super hot student teacher. Matt said he was being creepy and pathetic – but, dude, he was totally getting somewhere. Like, just look at the way she glared at him – Alfred had watched enough TV to know that when a girl looked at you that it, it totally meant they secretly wanted you.

Alfred's eyes felt heavy as he sat down. Neither of the two teachers responsible for this art class ever made it to the classroom before their students, so Alfred figured he'd have time to just catch like five minutes of sleep.

He was rudely awoken about a minute later, by an exasperated sigh. He opened one blue eye lazily.

"Sup."

"Get up Bonnefoy-Kirkland. This is not kindergarten naptime."

"A little sleep never hurt anyone."

"And learning something wouldn't hurt you, or must you be reminded of your less than adequate grade in this class?"

Opening both eyes properly, Alfred yawned, before breaking out his brightest smile.

"It's super hard to concentrate with you here. You're pretty distracting, ya know."

Natalya rolled her eyes, but Alfred swore he could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Blaming others for your own shortcomings will not get you far in life."

"But I'd much rather talk to you than do work, Nat."

"Don't call me-"

"Is Alfred bothering you, Ms. Arlovskaya?"

Alfred scowled at the voice. He'd been so busy talking that he hadn't noticed Mr. B walk in the room at all. Stupid ninja Russians.

Mr. Braginsky was scowling back at him. Alfred would never admit it, but the guy was kind of terrifying when he was angry – well, more terrifying than usual. Though normally quite a calm guy, and a well respected teacher (or, perhaps well _feared)_ Alfred thought there was something off about him. But Mr. Braginsky had never screamed and yelled at the class like some of the other teachers did. He didn't lose his temper, because he simply didn't need to. The art teacher radiated authority – and when he was angry, it was this cold, passive anger that seeped its way into your bones and made you feel like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over your head.

At almost six feet tall, the art teacher and hockey coach looked like he could bench press a truck. Alfred had heard a rumour once that, in his very first year of teaching, Mr. B had smashed a desk in half with one blow in a fit of rage. Alfred hadn't ever seen anything more than a few snapped-in-half pencils, but he didn't really want to aggravate his teacher to that point.

Though at this rate, considering what he'd done to the guy's car window, he wouldn't be surprised if some things other than desks were going to get smashed.

Turning his attention away from Alfred – after shooting Natalya what looked suspiciously like a judging elder brother look – Mr. B cleared his throat.

"Good morning class. It is nice to see most of you have the mental capacity to remain awake this early in the day."

A giggle spread quickly through the class, but it was quickly overshadowed by Alfred's own far-too enthusiastic laugh. Mr. Braginsky waited for the laughter to die down, before continuing.

"I regret to inform you that this morning that there has been a serious incident of vandalism on the school grounds. Last night, somebody decided to play a little joke and break the windshield of a car that was parked in my parking space."

Alfred put on his best surprised look. He could practically feel Matt's glare from across the room, so he did the best that he could to ignore it.

"Fortunately for myself, the car in question was not mine. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, the car did belong to the Deputy Police Chief of Riverview, who was meeting with one of the teachers here last night, and had borrowed my carpark as I went home early."

For a second Alfred felt his heart stop.

Well, fucking shit.

But at least they didn't know who it was, right?

"Deputy Police Chief Zwingli is extremely angry about this, and has sworn to personally arrest whoever it was that vandalized his property. He has asked all teachers to inform their classes of this, in hopes that someone owns up before the results of fingerprinting from the baseball bat found in the dumpster next to the school arrive, as well as the blood test results from where the perpetrator cut himself on the broken glass. Though it was not necessarily a student here at Riverview, the baseball bat was in fact marked with our school logo. Mr. Zwingli has stated that if it is, that student will be reprimanded swiftly, so if it was one of you, I would advise you to confess."

Mr. Braginsky's pale eyes were focused on him.

How the _fuck _did he know? How did they get the bat? Tyler had said –

Oh. Wait. _Tyler _had said he'd get rid of it.

And now Alfred was going to go to jail or get deported or get screamed at by his Dad _and _Papa for weeks – if the scary-ass weapon-obsessed revenge-seeking Deputy Police Chief didn't kill him first.

* * *

Matthew wanted to scream in frustration, or bang his head against the wall, or just strangle something.

Alfred was an _idiot._

_Such._

_An._

_Idiot._

Agreeing with Tyler's dumbass plan in the first place was stupid. Managing to get the wrong car?

Even stupider.

And then, on top of that, leaving his own blood on the car and not even getting rid of the weapon?

With all that TV Al watched, you'd have thought he'd picked up something about crime scenes.

Matt lifted his head up from his desk, where he'd slumped down in frustration. Mei glanced at him from across the room, eyes darting from him to Alfred and back to him with a questioning look. Matt returned an almost imperceptible nod.

Out of all of the cars to smash up in the world, Alfred had managed to pick the worst.

Deputy Police Chief Zwingli was the elder brother of one of the sophomores. Matthew had seen him around after school, sometimes coming by to pick up his little sister. The guy wasn't the most menacing, or tough looking – in fact, he was quite lean, and not that tall, and his hair cut was kind of girly – but the constant scowl and giant gun were pretty helpful in maintaining a threatening air. He was pretty young for his position, but notorious for his fantastic organization skills, and hair-trigger temper, as well as being the main reason little Lili Zwingli had never, ever been picked on.

Matthew remembered that Papa had mentioned crime rates dropping drastically as Zwingli had moved up in the law enforcement ranks. He also remembered Uncle Gilbert complaining about going up against the guy after particularly difficult court cases. Apparently, he wasn't exactly the easiest witness to cross-examine.

Great choice Alfred. Really.

After what had to have been the most intense 5 second silence of Matthew's life, Mr. Braginsky dropped the topic and moved on to the lesson. Matthew released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and heard Alfred do the same.

He felt a sympathetic pat on his back from Jóse.

"Amigo, I'm sorry your brother has no brain."

"I'm sorry too. So sorry."

Through the rest of the lesson, Matthew found himself avoiding Alfred at all costs, out of some paranoid irrational fear that if they so much as looked at each other, it'd be enough for Mr. Braginsky to call Zwingli and have him arrested on the spot – and as guilty as he felt knowing that his brother had done it, he knew that if he turned him in, he'd feel even guiltier.

Damn guilt complexes.

He didn't look in Alfred's direction once. Knowing him, Al was probably doing the same.

It felt like the period would never end, so when the bell rang, Matthew practically bolted for the door, only to be called out to.

"Matthew. Could you please remain behind for a minute?"

The announcement, which normally would have been met with the standard mocking 'oooooohs' from the rest of the class, was received in silence. Everyone (including Ms. Arlovskaya, for some reason) seemed to have had the same idea as him – get out of art as fast as possible.

Matthew froze on the spot, and didn't turn to face Mr. Braginsky until the classroom was empty.

"Calm down Matthew. You look like a baby deer caught in the headlights of a truck. You are not in trouble."

Matthew suppressed the urge to blush in embarrassment – you know, because being told you resemble an adorable woodland creature was kind of a blow to the masculinity.

"I want to speak to you about your brother."

Oh fuck. This was it. Mr. Braginsky was going to make him turn on Alfred! Of course he knew, Mr. B knew everything that went on in his classroom an-

"Please return at lunchtime. I don't want to keep you from your next class."

"P-pardon?"

"Go to second period, Matthew."

With that, Mr. Braginsky waved his hand and started to focus very intently on the stack of assignments on his desk, which Matthew recognized as the universal teacher sign for 'piss off, we're finished'.

Matthew left the classroom quickly, flinging the door open and almost running into Mei, who was waiting for him.

"Mei! Sorry!"

"It's fine! What did he want? Did he know it was Alfred? It was Alfred, right? Why would Alfred smash-"

"He was trying to get at Mr. Braginsky."

"Oh."

"He wants to see me at lunch."

"…and?"

"It's about Alfred."

"…and?"

"What else do you want me to say?"

"Um…"

Mei shrugged.

"I think you just answered all my questions." Mei smiled, linking her arm through Matthew's. "Except, one."

Matthew raised an eyebrow as the two began to leave the art department.

"And that would be?"

"Are you going to turn him in?"

* * *

As Francis walked out of Conference Room 4A of the Fournier Corporation headquarters an hour later than expected, he found himself in a rather unhappy mood.

To say negotiations had not gone well would be an understatement. It had taken all of his self control for Francis not to smack the smug smile off Jean Paul Fournier's stupid face as tensions had risen and risen in the small boardroom – self control, and of course, the probable law suit that would follow if the Bonnefoy heir had started a brawl with the Fournier heir during the midst of supposedly peaceful negations in front of at least four witnesses. Not to say he couldn't probably win any ensuing lawsuits, what with a Harvard-alumna lawyer for a best friend, as well as the family lawyers, of course, but all the negative publicity would lead to some angry phone calls from his dear Papa.

_"We will inform you of our decision later today."_

Magni-_fucking_-fique_._

That meant he would certainly not be catching a plane back to Riverview in few hours time, like he'd expected. It'd be a miracle if he could get back by the end of the week – airlines were always so fussy about last minute cancellations and bookings.

Stepping outside of Fournier Corporations into a waiting town car, Francis made a note to call home.

* * *

The question lingered in the back of his mind through third and fourth period. It repeated on a loop, getting a little louder with every snippet of conversation he heard concerning Deputy Police Chief Zwingli's car. The news of the vandalism had become the prime gossip of the school, worming its way through heads of students and becoming more and more twisted with each retelling, as gossip always did.

Some were of the belief that the true intent of the crime was a warning to Mr. Braginsky from ex-KGB officers. Others were sure that the Lili Zwingli herself had committed the crime, in an act of rebellion against her big brother.

And then, there was the truth, which seemed to be pretty widespread in its knowledge. Whispers – both admiring and ashamed - circulated that Alfred had done it, that Alfred was going to get caught, and the school's golden boy was going to jail.

However, the whispers were little more than speculations – though scarily accurate ones.

_"Are you going to turn him in?" _

The corridors in the art department weren't always this empty. Towards the end of the year, art students would rush in and out, paintbrushes and pastels clutched desperately in hand, overly large portfolios tucked haphazardly under arm. You could tell each individual's level of stress by the amount of paint streaks on the bridge of their nose, or the subtle eye twitch of too many energy drinks and late nights.

At this time of year though, it was a ghost town. Teachers weren't often known to linger in their classrooms, except to mark assignments or, for a special one or two, to indulge in art of their own.

Matthew's footsteps seemed to echo in the narrow space, the sound bouncing off of walls and closed doors. It seemed to him that the only sounds that existed here right now were ones created by him – and the ever present voice in his head.

As he neared Mr. Braginsky's classroom, the sound of voices reached his ears, gradually growing with each step he took. He recognised the harsh, biting tones of an argument.

"… not a child, Vanya. I can deal with myself."

"Don't lead him on."

"I have been nothing but cold to him. Or are your eyes seeing something mine cannot, dear big brother?"

The line was sickly sweet, so overly cloying in its delivery that Matthew winced hearing it. Reaching the closed door of the art room, he hesitated. Maybe it would be best to come back later?

"Yet he seems to believe otherwise."

A deadpan reply, followed by a delicate snort.

"Mere delusions."

"That boy, he is trouble, Natasha. Do not speak to-"

"And who are _you _to advise me on student teacher relations?"

"Natash-"

Inside the art room, something clattered to the ground, before the door flung open to reveal a decidedly angry looking Ms. Arlovskaya. She glanced at him, barely acknowledging his presence before brushing past him. Mr Braginsky followed, scowl etched into his features.

"Oh. Matthew. Please, wait inside." he barked, before shouting down the corridor in what Matthew assumed was Russian, and storming after the click-clack of Ms. Arlovskaya's heels.

Matthew nodded instinctually, but the response was greeted by thin air where Mr. Braginsky had been. It took him a second to process what the art teacher had actually said.

Leaving any the tiny snippet of argument he had heard behind him, Matthew stepped into the empty art room. He narrowly avoided stepping on the fallen easel that lay sprawled about a metre in front of the doorway.

He stooped down, picking the easel carefully, and looked around to see where it had come from. It looked like that class that had been in the room before lunch had put away most of the art equipment, aside from a few paints and brushes that lay on top of Mr Braginsky's desk. It seemed he had been about to begin painting.

It wasn't unusual for Mr. Braginsky to be painting. In fact, it was a rare day that the art teacher didn't have a work-in-progress set up at the back of the classroom, free for any students to look at and critique.

Matthew set the easel up next to Mr. Braginsky's desk, before scanning the floor for whatever painting, if any, had been knocked off it. It took him about a minute of searching to find it – the painting had half slid under a cabinet stacked with piles of coloured paper. He picked it up, placing it back on the easel.

Huh. That was weird.

Matthew didn't know much about art, but he supposed Mr. Braginsky was a pretty good painter. He liked to decorate Art Room 4 with a variety of artworks, both student-work and his own, and Matthew had always been able to tell the difference. The art teacher seemed to be a fan of abstract art, thick choppy brushstrokes of red and browns and blacks that fought sharp angles across canvases. Always raw, always rough – never the quick sketched landscapes and portraits that he would demonstrate to his class.

The painting he had picked up was not Mr. Braginsky's. There was no way. For one thing, it wasn't a thick canvas, but delicate, almost translucent paper. For another, it definitely wasn't that morning's bright yellow and orange half-finished sunburst thing that was at the back of the –

Oh.

Matthew glanced towards the back of the classroom. Mr. Braginsky's regular easel was right where it normally was, sunshine explosion still sitting there.

The painting that he had placed on this easel was deceptively simple - a delicate watercolour painting of a bear on all fours, head tilted in an almost curious manner. The brushstrokes were thin and intricate, flowing one into another in a way that Matthew deemed impossible. It was as if the artist had just never lifted brush from paper, but just done the whole thing in one long, twisting movement.

At first glance, the crisp black-on-white painting seemed completely finished. Upon a closer inspection, Matthew noticed what appeared to be the bear reaching for something in the bottom the corner, the beginning lines of which curved delicately in a yellow so pale it was barely noticeable.

The painting certainly wasn't Mr. Braginsky's. Absolutely no way.

"It's amazing..." Matthew said absentmindedly to himself.

"It is beautiful."

He almost jumped. Mr. Braginsky had silently made his way back into the classroom, with his uncanny grace.

"I'm sorry!" he apologised, suddenly panicked. "I didn't mean to…"

"Thank you for picking it up, Matthew." Mr. B waved off his apologies, all the while eyeing the painting. "Ms. Arlovskaya tripped and knocked it over on the way out, and unfortunately did not have a chance to pick it up."

"Right…"

So that had been the crashing sound from earlier.

"Whose painting is it?" Matthew asked. For a second, Mr. Braginsky seemed hesitant, before answering.

"I mean, they didn't sign-"

"It was left behind by an old student. They never got a chance to finish it."

"Oh. They were really good."

"One of the best."

Mr. Braginsky continued to stare at the paint, eyes narrowed. Matthew stood, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was pretty sure Mr. Braginsky hadn't called him here to look at old paintings. In fact, he wasn't really sure why he was looking at old paintings, even if they were-

"Ah, Matthew." The art teacher said suddenly, like he was just remembering Matthew's presence. "I'm sorry. Thank you for coming in during your lunch."

"Um. Oh! That's okay."

"I am afraid that I do not have good news for you. Please, sit down."

With that, Mr. Braginsky moved to sit behind his desk. Matthew grabbed a chair from the nearest table, and pulled it up to the desk. He sat, crossing his legs awkwardly in an attempt to look calm as Mr. Braginsky pulled out a few papers from a drawer inside his desk.

_Are you going to turn him in?_

"Let me get straight to the point. I've called you in here today because of the behaviour of your brother. Alfred is your younger brother, yes?"

"We're twins. But yeah, he's younger."

"Would you say you and Alfred are close?"

"Well…" Matthew stopped. His first instinct was to reply with a resounding yes – but to tell the truth…

"I see." Mr. Braginsky continued to sort through his papers, before pulling out two and placing them in front of Matthew.

"In front of you, Matthew, are Alfred's assignment marks from last year, and the grades he has received in the last month and a half that you have been back at school. As you can see, there has been a significant drop. Recently, your brother has also begun acting strangely. Have you been aware of this, Matthew?"

"Um, yes, but you know, it could be just starting school, and pressure from universities, or all the sports Al has been doing or ..."

Matthew's jumbled attempt at reasoning trailed off under Mr. Braginsky's questioning gaze.

"He's been different lately." Matthew shrugged. "But like, it's not-"

"Alfred's teachers, including myself, have become quite concerned about him. I've called you in here today to ask if Alfred is alright. Have there been any problems at home? Anything that happened in the last few months that may be affecting him this way?"

"I don't really know."

Mr. Braginsky raised an eyebrow, but Matthew didn't say any more. He didn't know what he _could _say, exactly. Sure, there had been Dad and Papa's increasing arguments, but it wasn't like they were affecting Al. Alfred had barely been around the last two months, spending most of his time with his new friends.

After sitting in tense silence for 30 seconds, Mr. Braginsky sighed, and pulled something else out of his desk drawer. He handed the envelope to Matthew.

"Here's a letter. Please deliver this to your parents, and inform them that they should be expecting a call from one of Alfred's teachers soon. I would have given this to Alfred, but… well, he is not exactly reliable."

Mr. Braginsky stood up, signalling for Matthew to do the same. Matthew looked down at the letter in his hands. It was a standard white envelope, with _Mr. Bonnefoy & Mr. Kirkland _written in elegant blue script in the middle. He looked back up, to see that Mr. Braginsky was halfway out of the classroom.

"But what about the car?"

Mr. B turned around sharply.

"The what, Matthew?"

"The… never mind. Sorry."

So this wasn't about the car. Maybe he'd been worried about nothing?

"Very well. Go enjoy the rest of your lunch break."

With that, the art teacher left the room, leaving Matthew alone with an envelope in hand and the ever present question of "_are you going to turn him in?_" echoing in his head.

* * *

"Are you absolutely sure I should fly back without you?" asked Jeanne's voice down the phone, straining to be heard over the noise of the airport. "We still have an hour before departure."

"There is no way I will make it."

"I could stay behind and you could take my ticket?"

"Non, Jeanne, though it is kind of you to offer. I need to stay and sort this out. Go catch your plane."

"Mr. Bonnefoy-"

"Francis."

"Francis, would you like me to book you a new flight once I get back?"

"I can do it myself. Merci, Jeanne."

"Fr-"

Francis hung up before Jeanne could protest. Yes, it was rude, but if he didn't, Jeanne (bless her heart) would probably miss her own flight. He checked the time – 6pm.

Four hours and those Fournier bastards still hadn't called.

* * *

The house wasn't normally this loud on Tuesday afternoons – by the time Matthew got home after guitar, Alfred was usually off at baseball practice, and both his parents were still at work, leaving Matthew alone in the calm quiet. Today though, Matthew arrived to the sound gunshots and swearing from the living room.

Alfred was sprawled on his stomach on the living room carpet, X-Box controller gripped tightly in both hands, a packet of Doritos and a dozen empty soda cans in front of him. He didn't look up as Matthew entered and sat next to him, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

"Fuckin' commies." Alfred said, after the character he was playing died for what seemed to Matthew like the 27th time.

"You're not even using the right controller. That's why you keep dying." Matthew reached forward behind the Dorito bag and picked up the second controller, which, unlike the one in Alfred's possession, was turned on.

"Oh."

Alfred looked down at the powerless controller in his hands, and threw lightly it on the floor.

"How did you even start the game with the wrong one?" Matthew asked, as he stood up and turned the console off.

His brother shrugged, before sitting up. The action knocked over a few of the cans, sending them rolling across the room. Matthew went after them, picking them up and dumping them in Alfred's lap.

"Maaaaaaattie." Alfred whined. "Throw them away for me?"

"No." he rolled his eyes, and sat back down next to Alfred. "Do it yourself."

"You suck."

"No, you suck."

"Your mom sucks."

"We don't have a mom, dumbass."

"Then, your dad sucks."

"We're brothers."

The familiar banter caused Matthew to feel a smile creep into his face. It'd been too long since they'd actually joked around. It was just a shame that Alfred only ever seemed to be his old self when he was…

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows and sniffed. The air smelt of mint.

He felt the smile desert his face.

"We need to talk."

"Oh my god, you're breaking up with me." Alfred deadpanned, before bursting into laughter.

"This isn't a joke."

"It better be! You promised we'd be together forev-"

Alfred stopped laughing at Matthew's grim expression."What's up, bro?"

"Mr. Braginsky called me in at lunchtime today."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. He stood up. Cans clattered to the floor, but he made no attempt to pick them up.

Matthew stood too. He gathered a few cans up while Alfred babbled at him.

"What? But you _never _get in trouble! If that bastard is out to get you then-"

"No! This was about _you._"

"Oh, shit he knows about the car doesn't he? I'm going to die, Matt! I'm too pretty for prison!" Alfred grabbed at Matthew's shoulders and he dropped the rubbish he was holding.

"Oh shut up, Al! He was talking about grades and stuff."

"That's all?"

Alfred relaxed visibly and let go. He almost smiled.

"Did you know you were failing?" Matthew raised an eyebrow. That… had not been what he was expecting.

"Well… yeah." Alfred nodded. "Duh."

"Mr. Braginsky gave me this letter to give to Dad and Papa."

"Don't give it to them!" Alfred's eyebrows shot up.

"Well, you weren't going to tell them, were you?"

"They don't need to know!"

"Why are you acting like you care, Al?" Matthew retorted. "You clearly don't give a fuck about your grades."

"Doesn't mean our parents don't!"

"Which is why they need to know!"

Their argument had become a full-blown fight, as Alfred launched himself clumsily at Matthew, not quite tripping over his feet. Matthew dodged, side-stepping to the right and narrowly avoided colliding with the couch.

"Gimme the letter!"

Alfred grabbed at his arm and Matthew twisted left, slipping out of the heavy fabric. Alfred, fists clenched on empty sleeves, dropped the jacket on the floor, kicking it. It didn't travel far, but did send aluminium careening towards the edges of the room.

"Hell no!" Matthew scowled, putting his hand in his pocket and clutching the letter tightly.

"Just give it to me!" His brother scowled, jumping at him again. This time, he was more successful, and Matthew found himself caught.

"Get your drunk ass off me!"

Matthew shoved, and Alfred shoved back. They grappled, the momentum propelling the two of them sideways, crashing and falling into and over the couch, all the while yelling in each others' faces.

With each traded blow and shouted insult, Matthew felt a burning feeling boiling hotter and hotter in the pit of his stomach. Resentment, rage, frustration, churning into a familiar white-hot horrible feeling that Alfred usually had the misfortune to experience

Matthew wasn't, by nature, one for fighting. Since he could remember, when Matthew and Alfred had fought, as brothers are wont to do, there had always been a clear pattern to the few disagreements. The arguments were begun by Alfred, continued by Alfred, and ended by Alfred. As a child, Matthew had been the passive of the two. Alfred was the spitfire, the loud one, the one that would fight and fight and fight forever. So Matthew gave in – it was simply easier than trying to keep up.

The frequency of fights had increased as they grew older, and Matthew and Alfred grew slightly further apart. Though to many who were briefly acquainted with them, Matthew was still Alfred's shadow, those that knew them saw differently. Adolescence had been Matthew's discovery of his natural sporting talent (something he'd been sure had only been possessed by Alfred), and of a little something called independence.

Yes, Matthew wasn't one for fighting – but, now, at least, he wasn't one for losing either.

"Hand it over, Matthew!"

"Oh, go play with your meathead friends!"

"At least my friends aren't losers!"

"_My _friends? They used to be your friends too! And not losers? Try saying that when they all _die _of alcohol poisoning and liver disease!"

"Shut up! They like me!"

"They like your money and your fake id and your letterman jacket – not you!"

"Go die, Matthew! I have fun with them! They don't yell at me, or judge me, or any of this shit! I don't need your fucking approval – not if you're just going to keep screaming at me because I hear enough of that from our fucking parents!"

And with that, the fight stopped. Alfred's arm loosened around Matthew's neck, and Matthew removed his elbow from Alfred's gut. Alfred took a small step back, removing his grip around Matthew, only to hear the crinkle of foil and the crunch of something indelible being crushed into the carpet. Matthew heard Alfred's ragged breaths hitch in his throat, and felt his own do the same.

"Oh fuck." whispered Alfred, who had dropped his arms limply to his sides, as he carefully moved his right foot. They both turned slowly, and stared at the crushed corn chip powder that had bloomed in horrendous neon glory under Alfred's foot.

"…That was new carpet." Matthew said quietly, eyes wide in horror. "Papa is going to kill you."

"Not if Dad does first."

The two stared in stunned silence at the orange blotch. Matthew couldn't help but think how ridiculous this was. Alfred had vandalised a car – _a cop's car_ – and was failing practically every class, and then they'd fought and now… and now they were worrying about a fucking Dorito stain.

He started to laugh. It wasn't long before Alfred joined in, though whether or not they were laughing at the same thing, Matthew didn't know.

"How are we going to clean that shit?" asked Alfred after their laughter had died down.

Matthew eyed the stain.

"Sodium bicarbonate?" he suggested. "You can clean with that, right?"

"What?"

"Baking soda."

"You can't use baking soda on carpet. Carpet isn't a food."

"…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm… yeah. You know…" said Alfred awkwardly, scratching the side of his head.

"Yeah, me too." Matthew replied, the corner of his lip curving upwards into a lopsided smile, before looking at his brother. Alfred looked vaguely uncomfortable, face somewhere halfway between a grimace and a frown.

"I… I won't give it to them, okay Al?" said Matthew uncertainly.

"Really?" Alfred's face lit up brighter than on Christmas and his birthday combined. "You promise, Mattie?"

"One condition."

"What?" Alfred narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Deputy Zwingli's car. That was you, wasn't it?"

"It wasn't meant for him." said Alfred defensively.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Yep."

Matthew sighed.

"Seriously Al. I can't hide that from them. If they catch you, you own up. Okay?"

"Fine. All in the name of justice, or whatever. So you won't give them the letter?"

"Shouldn't you be more worried about, you know, getting arrested?"

"Eh. Everything works out for me in the end. They won't get me. Now, the letter?"

Alfred F.J. Bonnefoy-Kirkland. As nonchalant as ever. Matthew fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I promise I won't give it to them. But this is the last time. I'm not covering for you again, so you're going to have to stop being an ass."

"I swear on the manliness of Lincoln's beard that I will own up to my actions if caught, clean up my act and become a contributing member of our American society." Alfred placed his hand on his heart, and put on his best 'dignified' face.

"No, seriously Alfred."

"I am serious. This is the last time." Alfred beamed at him. "I promise."

Matthew glared for about a minute, before sighing again.

"I believe you."

"I love you, bro. You rock."

Matthew looked at the room around them. The couch had been knocked backwards by about a metre. There was rubbish everywhere, and what appeared to be a broken X-Box game case, that must have been trodden on at some point. He looked back at Alfred. His brother was starting to look a bit green. It seemed that the negative effects of however many drinks he had had were starting to kick in – all that movement had most certainly not been good for him.

"I can tidy this up, Al. You look like you're going to throw up."

Alfred nodded in gratitude, without saying a word. It always amazed Matthew how quickly his brother could switch moods at the drop of a hat.

Or maybe he just really didn't want to open his mouth.

"Just… go take a shower or something before Dad gets home. You smell like someone poured a bucket of Listerine over your head, and I don't really think it's going to fool him."

"It's not like he's ever noticed before." Alfred said quietly, before trudging out of the living room. Matthew watched him go, before glancing over the trashed room once again. Fuck. He hated cleaning, but if Dad got back before –

A sudden knock at the door sent Matthew's hopes of actually tidying the room up fleeing out the window. As he made his way to the front door, he cursed whatever god it was up there that had made his dad decide to leave work and come home two hours earlier than expected.

* * *

**Sorry again for the wait, guys and for the fact that I am presenting to you ¾ of what was intended to be one chapter (with a rather abrupt ending) - I figured that it had actually been far too long since the last update, and I was starting to feel really guilty. Just so you know, I'm always contactable through my tumblr (link on profile) – feel free to say hi, or ask me any questions you might have :)  
Until next time! - Tina **


	4. Chapter 03

**AN:** **THIS STORY IS NOT ABANDONED! So I finished my exams today, and until my birthday, then two weeks until I go to Germany (for a school trip!). I'm sorry for the delay – I'm pretty much the world's worst scheduler.**

**DISCLAIMER: ****I do not own ****_Hetalia. _****Any views expressed by characters in my story are not necessarily my own views, nor the views of Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_"… Uncle Gilbert and this guy called Antonio who we're supposed to call Uncle Toni came over today and helped us unpack. Our parents were surprised. Dad actually dropped the box he was holding when they showed up at the door. I've never seen Dad hug anyone that wasn't me or Al or Papa before, but he hugged Uncle Toni. Papa told us that he and Dad were roommates in university, back when Dad and Papa first met, and that neither he nor Dad had seen him in a long time._

_We asked dad about it later, but he wouldn't tell us anything. Papa says he doesn't like to talk about it."_

* * *

To Matthew's pleasant surprise, it wasn't his father. Instead, when Matthew opened the door, he found himself face to face with what appeared to be a giant plush eagle_._

"What the…"

"Hello, Birdie!" said a familiar voice as the toy was thrust towards Matthew. He reached out awkwardly to grab it, barely wrapping his arms around the oversized bird. Peering up over the eagle, he was met by a smirking face he hadn't seen in a while.

"Uncle Gilbert! You're back from Germany?"

"Back and better than ever!" replied Uncle Gilbert, before he barrelled on past Matthew and into the house. Matthew followed him to the living room, after struggling to close the front door with little to no use of his arms, to find his honorary uncle standing in the doorway surrounded by a multitude of shopping bags, looking utterly perplexed.

"Woah, little bird." he whistled, eyebrow raised. "What'd you do here?"

"Alfred."

"Ah." Uncle Gilbert paused, and looked around. "Where is he?"

"In the shower."

"Too bad. No presents for him."

Luckily for Matthew, Uncle Gilbert had a bit of experience in tidying up. With his help, the living room was mostly back in place in a manner of minutes – except for the orange corn chip stain, which his uncle was now dabbing at with a mixture of warm water and white vinegar.

"How do you…" asked Matthew, in confusion. The sight of the high powered attorney on his knees wiping at a chip stain was a strange one, to say the least. Gilbert grinned at the floor.

"Learnt it from our housekeeper when I was 16. Me and your papa spilt wine on my dad's living room sofa."

Matthew had heard a lot of stories about Uncle Gilbert and Papa's childhood. The two had met through a pen-pal programme, and written to each other for four years before Uncle Gil's parents had allowed him to go on exchange for a year to Paris, and stay with Papa's family. Face to face, neither had found the other any less interesting, and that year had been the beginning of a life-long friendship, with many summers spent at each other's houses. Papa claimed that, to this day, their respective parents still regretted the decision.

The first time Matthew had met Uncle Gilbert, the man had terrified him. They had been staying with Mémère and Pépère over Christmas back with he and Al were eight years old. It was the first time they'd been to their grandparent's estate in Cannes, and the two of them had spent much of the holiday completely snowed in, playing hide and seek in the villa's many rooms. On the morning of December 21st, it was Matthew's turn to count – and that turn had gone disastrously. After 30 minutes of searching every nook and cranny Alfred could possibly fit into, and coming up with nothing, he'd become quite certain that Alfred was messing with him. Having come to that conclusion, he'd wandered to the kitchen and Papa had made him some hot cocoa. But as he'd sat there, all warm and cosy, he'd started to feel guilty. The longer he'd sat, the guiltier he'd felt for not finding his brother, and the more and more convinced that he'd actually _lost Alfred forever_, and that he was definitely going to be punished.

So imagine his surprise when a strange man, with shockingly pale hair and monstrous red eyes had walked into the kitchen unannounced.

He'd run away, spilling his cocoa all over the man, only to bump into Alfred halfway down the hallway, asking if he'd met the guy calling himself their 'awesome' Uncle Gilbert yet.

It'd taken until Christmas Eve, when Uncle Gilbert removed his red-tinted contact lenses and reveal the normal (if mismatched) eyes underneath, for Matthew to pluck up the courage to apologise.

_"You just fled like a little baby bird, didn't ya?"_

Relations with Uncle Gilbert had certainly come a long way in 9 years. It'd certainly been helpful moving to his hometown, as Papa not only got to see his friend more, but he and Alfred had really gotten to know the man who had declared himself their uncle. He'd once told them that uncles were just as important for a family as dads, and over the years, Matthew had definitely come to believe him. He and Al, in comparison to their friends, had always had a decided lack of relatives – Papa's family was close, but it seemed like Dad didn't even have one – so people like Uncle Gilbert and Uncle Antonio and Aunt Liz were just as much a part of the family as anyone.

It seemed like you could always count on family to clean up your messes…

Literally.

* * *

"Scheiβe. I've probably ruined these pants." grumbled Gilbert as he stood up and inspected his handiwork. All that was left of the powdered cheese monstrosity was a soggy, but clean patch of slightly discoloured carpet. "I can never wear this suit again."

He heard a muffled laugh and looked up to see that Matthew was still holding his overly-large present.

"What the hell were your parents thinking, getting white carpet?"

"Papa said something about it matching the crown-moulding." the teenager attempted to shrug, before giving up and placing the toy on the floor next to where Gilbert's shopping bags had been ceremonially placed in a small pile. "Dad did warn him."

"Francis should have known better." he paused. "That sounds really weird coming from me."

Matthew laughed again, and gestured towards the bird.

"Thank you for the eagle."

"It's pretty awesome, right Birdie? Found it at this cheesy tourist place in the middle of Berlin."

Every time Gilbert went on a trip anywhere, it was tradition for him to bring his pseudo-nephews a particular present each, on top of the ones usually demanded by Alfred before he went away. Matthew would always receive a bird of some sort, in honour of his nickname – Gilbert wasn't sure where he kept them all, but he reckoned that Matthew's bedroom must have looked like an aviary. Alfred's present was a bit easier. Any sort of foodstuff would suffice, as no matter what it was, it would swiftly disappear into the black hole he called a stomach.

Gilbert blamed Arthur. If the kid enjoyed his cooking, he could enjoy Matthew hadn't turned out the same was most certainly due to Francis' intervention.

"Go put that thing in your room. I'll tidy this up."

Matthew obliged, picking up his toy and scooting out the door, while Gilbert set to work rearranging the living room back into Francis and Arthur's ridiculously precise arrangement. He was pondering the position of an ottoman when Matthew returned.

"Two and a half centimetres to the left."

"Huh?"

"That's like an inch."

"I knew that."

Gilbert straightened up, making a big show of dusting himself off.

"I am the best uncle."

"You are the best uncle."

"Never forget that, kid."

He flopped onto a couch and looked up at Matthew, who stood with the weirdest combination of gratitude and guilt plastered over his adorable face.

"So what happened?" he asked, putting on his serious face. Sure, it was no biggie to help put the room back together. But what was important was the fact that the room had been messed up in the first place. "You said Alfred did this. How?"

Matthew sat down, fighting to keep his features neutral.

"We had a fight. It was nothing. It's okay now."

He raised an eyebrow.

Gilbert was the best defence attorney in town. He'd spent half of his childhood running around his family law firm, rubbing shoulders with the law elite, not to mention studied at Harvard Law with some of the most pretentious people he'd ever met.

Sniffing out bullshit was in his blood.

"Matthew. Don't." he glanced around, spotting a cracked plastic case half hidden under the TV cabinet. "Nothing doesn't break video games and send couches moving or Alfred running away."

"He didn't run! He went to go thro-"

Matthew clamped up, one hand flying up to cover his mouth. Gilbert frowned, but was careful not to appear too angry or intimidating.

This was family, not an unruly witness.

"Tell me what happened."

It took a particularly stony silence, but the story came out. Matthew's resolve collapsed like a house of cards, and by the time Gilbert had heard everything– the car, the drinking, the fighting, the letter – the teenager looked almost relieved.

The information was, to say the least, unsettling. When Gilbert had gone away eight months earlier, cracks in Alfred's golden boy image had begun to appear, but Gilbert had put that down to general teenage rebellion, combined with the pressures of schoolwork. Personally, he could relate – he and Francis certainly weren't good teenagers, and from what he'd heard of Arthur's youth, neither was he – but to him, it sounded like Alfred was falling at a faster rate than most teenagers.

Frankly, he was a little surprised neither Francis nor Arthur had noticed.

"Please don't tell dad and papa, Uncle Gil. Everything's okay, really. Alfred will be fine." Matthew's tone was pleading.

Should he tell them? Gilbert wasn't sure whether or not Alfred's problems would be considered serious, but he didn't feel right about withholding information from his parents. On one hand, he didn't really know enough the about the situation, having been away for so long, nor did have any real evidence aside from Matt's testimony. On the other, Arthur and Francis _were _Alfred's parents, and two of his best friends, and not telling them…

But then again, Matthew seemed desperate.

"Matt, you know I'm not one to judge – your papa and I were right dicks when we were teenagers. Well, we still are, - but that's not the point. I'm not going to talk to your parents because I trust you, and if you say it's all good, it's probably all good. I don't know if you hiding stuff from them is the right thing to do though."

Alfred would probably grow out of it. Wasn't being a teenager all about doing stupid shit until it karma threw it back in your face to teach you a lesson?

Matthew nodded slowly, and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of Gilbert's cell phone ringing.

He checked the screen – _Ludovicus Beilschmidt_ – and groaned.

"Sorry Birdie, got to go. Dad's calling." he smiled in an attempt to comfort the incredibly guilty looking Matthew, who nodded again. "Tell your parents I stopped by and dropped that stuff off, okay?"

He got up to leave, and made it to the door before he remembered what he had been doing before getting sidetracked with cleaning and worrying about Alfred.

"Oh! Before I go…"

Gilbert dug into the pocket of his suit jacket, and extracted a battered looking package of gummy-bears. He chucked them to Matthew.

"Give those to your brother if he ever gets over the hangover."

* * *

Matthew wasn't sure what to think.

Uncle Gilbert was the _fun _one – the uncle that got kind of drunk at parties and made stupid jokes, the one that snuck candy and soda in covert missions to him and Al when they were meant to be grounded, the only babysitter that let them stay up past parent-appointed-bedtime and watch horror movies - and while Matthew knew that of course, Uncle Gil was an adult and could take things seriously, he'd never really experienced his uncle's stern side before, aside from that one time he'd gone to see him in court.

From the courtroom gallery, watching Uncle Gilbert had been unnerving enough. Put into position on the stand, Matthew imagined, had to be even worse.

In retrospect, he'd probably gotten off quite lightly – not that he'd really done anything wrong, right?

Al was the one being a total prick.

Not him.

* * *

The call came in the middle of a late, late, dinner, the ringing noise almost drowned out by the cacophony of patrons and chefs typical of hotel restaurants. Had Francis' meal a little more seasoning, or his mood a little less lacklustre, he would have missed the tri-tone ring entirely.

To the other diners, the phone call must have been a sight. A handsome, well dressed, if somewhat frustrated looking man, slamming his hands onto the table after a tense call, narrowly avoiding the precisely placed cutlery and sending a wine glass smashing to the ground. The cell phone was stuffed back into trouser pocket roughly, a handful of bills thrown haphazardly next to a barely touched plate of bland-yet-expensive filet mignon before he stalked out of the restaurant.

Suffice to say, the proposed Fournier-Bonnefoy merger, much like the unfortunate cabernet sauvignon, was no longer on the table.

* * *

_"A little bit of Monica in my life… a little bit of Erica by my side…"_

The radio blared as Arthur backed out of his car park. He found himself humming along to the familiar tune as he drove. When the song had first come out, it'd quickly become Francis' favourite. He'd hated it then – mostly because he couldn't stand anything that _horrible Frenchman_ liked. Arthur remembered how Francis used to declare, every single time he heard it, that it was going to be a hit.

"It will be number one. You'll see, _Arthur_." he'd say, deliberately saying his name with a hard 't' just to exasperate him.

Damn frog had been right. Four months later it'd climbed to the top of the charts, and wherever Arthur had gone, he couldn't ever escape the song.

Though by this time, Arthur had stopped hating Francis and everything to do with Francis.

Turning the corner at the first intersection, Mambo No. 5 finished.

* * *

It turned out, that travel agencies didn't tend to be open at 10:30pm on a Tuesday night, so Francis had resorted to a long distance call back to Riverview. It'd taken some charm and negotiating (neither of which Francis had felt particularly enthusiastic about for once), but new tickets were booked for Friday, 7pm Paris time, arriving back in Riverview at 8pm. There had been no earlier flights, much to his chagrin.

Francis' mother had called the hotel room at 11:45. Éléonore Bonnefoy had informed her son that she was coming back from the house in Strasbourg, and that she would be spending all of Thursday with him. As much as he loved his mother, Francis knew that his dear mother would spend the whole day chastising him for not bringing her darling Alfred and Matthieu to visit more, or lamenting over the fact that although blessed with two gorgeous children and wonderful grandsons, she had yet to have a female grandchild (all accompanied, of course, with a raising her elegantly shaped eyebrows pointedly in Francis' direction – sometimes he wondered whether Monique had ever experienced the expression, but would remember that Monique was 28 and single and suddenly the way Éléonore looked at _him _didn't feel so bad).

Éléonore Bonnefoy was beautiful, loving, and a wonderful mother – subtle, she was not.

After half an hour on the phone with his mother, she handed the phone on to her husband, who had informed his son that he was disappointed that the takeover had not been successful, but that the Fournier's would regret their decision.

His father's tone had been surprisingly kind. Louis Bonnefoy was by no means a harsh man, but neither was he one to tolerate anything he saw as failure.

Francis got the sudden feeling that he wasn't the first Bonnefoy to try to negotiate with the Fourniers.

By the time he got off the phone to his parents, it was almost ten to one in the morning. That meant it was around 6:50, Tuesday, in Riverview.

Good. If he was lucky, Francis would just be catching Arthur on the landline as he walked through the door. There had been no point ringing his cell phone any earlier, as the man always turned it off while driving, even on the short 15 minute drive home.

He watched the ticking of the clock intently as he hit 'most-dialled'.

* * *

The phone rang the minute Arthur stepped through the door, but for once, he decided to ignore it. It'd been a long day – he always worked late on Tuesdays, but today had felt particularly lengthy, due to an unfortunate incident in the morning involving the spillage of a latte on some particularly expensive leather-bound encyclopaedias. Suffice to say, the culprit had been banned from the library indefinitely.

The whole fiasco had left Arthur feeling rather grimy on behalf of the book

* * *

"Merci."said Francis with a tense smile, as he closed the door. His phone cal had been interrupted by a knock on the door. It seemed in his earlier haste to leave the hotel restaurant earlier, he'd dropped his credit card. A lovely Swedish couple on their honeymoon had handed it in to the front desk (Francis made a note to send a bottle of champagne to their room tomorrow in thanks), and while it was late, reception had thought it best to bring it up.

He returned to his phone call, only to hear to the familiar beep of voicemail. Sighing in frustration he left his message.

_"Bonjour, __chéri_…"

* * *

Dinner was rather relaxed, if quiet affair. Neither Matthew nor Alfred seemed particularly eager to talk, and Arthur had little to share, aside from the news of Elizaveta's engagement, which he really should have said something about earlier. Come to think of it, he'd forgotten to tell Francis too.

No matter. He'd tell him when he got back.

When dinner was over, Alfred had, in a strange stroke of kindness and responsibility, offered to wash up. Matthew had gone to his room, mumbling about calculus or calculators or something along those lines, after informing him that Gilbert had come around earlier and left some things for them.

Arthur was a little disappointed that his two sons were occupied, yet, he was also quite grateful for the alone time. The house was rarely this calm – so he may as well take advantage of the relative silence when it presented itself.

On his way to grab a book from the study, Arthur remembered the phone call. Before playing the message, he checked the number. It was an unfamiliar one.

_"Hello, Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Kirkland. My name is Stuart Adams, and I'm your son Alfred's math teacher. I'm calling you, as I have a few concerns about Alfred's progress. It would be helpful if you could please call the school as soon as possible to arrange a meeting. Thank you."_

Well, bollocks.

* * *

**And that's all for now. This is a very short chapter, and I apologise for that. I've had a bit of writer's block with this one – Gilbert wasn't originally in the scene but having him butt his way into my thought process really helped moved it along. Do tell me what you thought! Until next time – Tina :)**


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